


controlled burn

by writinqs



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Fingerfucking, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering, literally just porn idk what to tell you, possibly not canon compliant? idk tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writinqs/pseuds/writinqs
Summary: Agnes pays Gertrude a visit. Things heat up quickly.
Relationships: Agnes Montague/Gertrude Robinson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 82





	controlled burn

**Author's Note:**

> i realized that there's no gertrude/agnes porn out there and took matters into my own lesbian hands
> 
> set in the late 70s/early 80s. gertrude's in her late thirties and agnes is in her late twenties.

It’s late. Everyone should be home and the lights in the institute should be off. No one should be hunched over their desk recording painstaking notes at this hour. And yet, that is precisely what Gertrude Robinson is doing. The paper beneath her is a mess. Arrows connect misspelled names and guessed-at dates. Her hypotheses climb the margins, each one ending with an errant question mark. The further down the paper she moves, the more disheveled her penmanship grows. Letters connect in unlikely places and erroneous vowels are abandoned. Her mind is moving far faster than the pen ever could. If she could commit her thoughts to tape, perhaps her voice could render her musings intelligible. The tapes, though, are subject to Wright’s perusal. These notes are for her.

A knock sounds from the door. Gertrude straightens in her chair and her hand reflexively bends around the paper, cradling its contents from sight. It isn’t Wright. His knocks are full-knuckled. They come in threes. This knock is the stuttering of a single knuckle against the frosted glass window of her door. It’s a flickering sound, something that wavers between wanting to be heard and wanting to go unobserved. 

Gertrude pulls a letter opener from the mug of office supplies she keeps on her desk. She sets it on her thigh. Hidden from view but still readily available. “Come in,” she says. Her voice cracks somewhere in the middle with exhaustion and disuse.

The door opens. Gertrude squints at the woman turning the knob, stepping in, and easing the door shut. The light in her office is weak. It shines over the desk and little else, leaving the middle of the office an oasis of light amidst a creeping darkness.

The woman turns and steps forward until she stands before Gertrude’s desk. She’s willowy and taller than average. Gertrude would guess that this woman is some ten years younger than her, somewhere in her late twenties. Her hair falls long and straight over her shoulders. It curls up at the ends, and the overhead light threads its auburn hue with copper. Twin blooms of blush shine on her cheeks. It isn’t makeup, Gertrude’s sure; it’s the stark flush that rises after running a long distance or after coming inside from the cold.

And then Gertrude meets her eyes. They’re brown and perfectly symmetrical, and Gertrude can tell that they see everything. These eyes are not delicate or bright; they are sure of each dart and redirection. Everything they see, they consume. The room, Gertrude’s become aware, is markedly warmer than it was moments ago.

“Hello, Gertrude,” the woman says. She smiles. Her cheeks do not lift with the movement and her eyes remain unblinking. Though Gertrude can hear her perfectly well, her voice sounds like a whisper. 

Gertrude drops her gaze from the woman’s face. As she does, she catches sight of the hem of the woman’s sleeve. The woman rotates her wrist in, but Gertrude’s seen it. A fingerprint-sized piece of the fabric is missing. The sleeve fades into nonexistence, its termination marked only by a golden and then brown and then black halo. The fibers curl and twist around the scorch mark.

“You’re her,” Gertrude says. She settles back in her chair. This visit has taken her by surprise, but now she knows who this woman is. She knows who she serves and her preferred method of evoking terror. This knowledge in combination with the letter opener’s weight against her leg is all the reassurance she needs. “You’re Agnes Montague.”

“I am,” Agnes says. She concedes this fact as though she regrets it. “And you’re the Archivist.”

Gertrude spreads her hands. “At your service. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I thought you might want to meet me,” Agnes says. She doesn’t say it as though she’s proud of herself; she doesn’t imply that she’s a person worth meeting. It is, once again, a simple fact. “And, if I’m being honest, I wanted to meet you.”

“Am I safe in assuming that ‘meet’ is a euphemism for something profoundly more unpleasant than a mere introduction?” Gertrude asks. She can’t muster up fear, as much as she acknowledges that fear would be the logical response here. She scrapes the bottom of her belly for anxiety or unease and finds only curiosity. 

Agnes shakes her head emphatically. “No,” she says. For a two-letter word, the single syllable carries untold conviction. “No,” she repeats. “I really did just want to meet you.” There’s a candle on the left side of Gertrude’s desk, and Agnes reaches down and presses the unlit wick between her fingers. When she pulls her hand away, the candle is lit and guttering softly. “I think our interests might be in closer alignment than they appear.” She speaks these last words quietly. Her eyes lift to Gertrude’s.

This, finally, sparks trepidation. Patrons of other entities never willingly enter the Eye’s domain. They never present themselves before the Archivist for polite introductions. Gertrude hides her concern and pointedly avoids watching the candle now burning atop her desk.

“You’ll forgive me if I can’t bring myself to agree,” Gertrude says. “Your interests are those of the Desolation and the Cult of the Lightless Flame. I myself am not partial to ushering in a scorched and scoured earth.”

“Those are the cult’s interests,” Agnes says, the same insistence back in her voice. Gertrude wonders idly if Agnes’s eyes would glow if she turned the light off. Involuntarily, she drops her gaze to Agnes’s mouth. It’s less searing than her eyes.

“And you’re their messiah,” Gertrude says. She watches as Agnes starts moving around her desk, rotating her chair to keep both eyes on her. Once Agnes rounds the desk, the letter opener will be in plain view. Gertrude makes no move to conceal it.

“That’s what they want me to be,” Agnes says. 

It’s growing warmer with each step Agnes takes towards her. “And what do you want to be?” Gertrude says. She’s never felt closer to real danger than she does now. She doesn’t know what it means that she isn’t entirely averse to the feeling.

“I’m not sure,” Agnes says. She rounds the desk. Her gaze drops to the length of silver on Gertrude’s thigh. She moves forward. Gertrude feels her back stiffen. The hand closest to the letter opener is poised to grab its handle. 

Before Gertrude can understand what she’s doing, Agnes is leaning down and swinging her legs over Gertrude’s lap. The letter opener falls to the floor, clattering thinly. The skirt Agnes is wearing stretches across her thighs. Gertrude swallows. The heat is cloying, so total that it forces her breaths in and out in controlled gasps. Warmth blossoms across her legs where Agnes’s body meets hers. She’s made aware of a different kind of warmth unspooling in her gut, gathering low in the basin of her pelvis. Her hands drift from the armrests to Agnes’s hips of their own volition. She sneaks a finger just below the hem of Agnes’s sweater and nearly recoils at the heat of her skin. It’s feverish, a warmth so frantic she must tap her fingers against Agnes’s skin for a few moments before she adjusts.

Agnes’s hands lift to Gertrude’s cheeks. The warmth here is less bracing than the heat of Agnes’s hips. This heat is more like steam, roiling and pleasantly crowded. Her skin feels molten and she shifts her hips up, hissing at the pressure of Agnes in her lap.

“Maybe you can help me figure that out,” Agnes whispers. Her eyes are so close to Gertrude’s and Gertrude shuts her eyes before Agnes’s mouth is on hers because it’s simply too much to look at. Once their lips do meet, though, Gertrude forgets Agnes’s gaze and her incendiary fingertips. The only thing to focus on is her mouth, warm and pliant and moving against hers in a way Gertrude doubts is human. Agnes’s tongue lashes across Gertrude’s lips, more fire than muscle and sinew. Gertrude now understands why poets often write that flames are hungry creatures, licking at their victims. She presses her fingers into Agnes’s hips, her hands now accustomed to the temperature. 

In response, Agnes moves a hand from Gertrude’s face and presses it between her legs. Gertrude gasps at the sensation, the hardness and warmth of Agnes’s knuckles apparent even through her clothes. Agnes moves from Gertrude’s mouth to her jaw, eventually laving down to the juncture of Gertrude’s neck and shoulder. Her teeth and tongue press into the sensitive skin. It feels as though a pool of hot wax has gathered in the bowl of Gertrude’s shoulder. “Fuck,” is all Gertrude can manage.

“Language, Archivist,” Agnes tuts. Gertrude can feel her smiling against her skin, the crescent of her teeth sparking along her skin. Even as she admonishes Gertrude, Agnes reaches her hand up and unbuttons Gertrude’s jeans without looking. Just before dipping her hand beneath Gertrude’s underwear, Agnes tilts her head up and presses a kiss into the soft skin behind Gertrude’s ear. Gertrude arches her back, her chest now flush to Agnes’s heated form.

Her fingers are unlike anything Gertrude’s ever felt. They’re long and searing, solid and prehensile flames made flesh. Gertrude pushes her hips up into Agnes’s hand. She can feel her own wetness. Agnes does too, she knows. Again, she feels that maddening smile burn into her skin. 

“You’re exquisite,” Agnes says as she presses her middle finger into Gertrude. Gertrude’s legs lock and her back arches further. Her chest is heaving now. The only sounds she’s making are choked-off moans and desperate huffs of breath. A sheen of sweat is developing on her forehead and the small of her back. The heat of Agnes is so much all at once in so many places. Her tongue and teeth continue to tease Gertrude’s mouth, her jaw, her neck. Agnes slips another finger in, crooking them forward inside Gertrude. “So warm,” Agnes muses. 

Gertrude’s hands have returned to her armrests, her fingers arching around the wood, knuckles white and joints taut. She jerks her hips up. Agnes gets the message and lifts her thumb to Gertrude’s clit, pressing tight, fast circles against her. Gertrude breaths relief into Agnes’s shoulder. Agnes’s head is nestled in Gertrude’s right shoulder, teeth nipping and tongue darting out to soothe the bites she presses into Gertrude’s skin. They’ve developed a rhythm, Gertrude’s hips moving in time with Agnes’s ministrations. Agnes’s thighs keep Gertrude in place, solid and warm on either side of her. Gertrude feels as though her stomach is boiling. The warmth in her is mounting, breaking her voice into a strangled whimper.

“That’s it,” Agnes says. Her pace is brutal, her fingers moving fast and slick inside and against Gertrude. She twists her hand, thumbing at Gertrude’s clit while curling her fingers fully and deliberately. “Come for me.”

It’s a shuddering thing. Gertrude feels herself stiffen, feels herself clench around Agnes’s clever fingers. Her moan is loud and shameless and cracked down the middle. All the while, Agnes moves her fingers inside Gertrude, hooking her fingers, forcing Gertrude’s hips into a frenzied press and pull, chasing each bit of heat. She is aware, dimly, that Agnes is laughing into her shoulder.

Once Gertrude’s hips have stilled and her breathing is approaching normalcy, Agnes pulls her fingers out and stands. Gertrude opens her eyes, aware that they’re half-lidded and hazy and too fucked-out to care. Agnes is unruffled. The ends of her hair have crossed and flattened, but that’s the only evidence on her of their encounter. That and the glisten on her fingers. The sight of it catches Gertrude’s breath. 

“It was good to meet you, Archivist,” Agnes says. She’s already standing by the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

Even after the door swings shut, Gertrude is sure she can smell a whiff of smoke.


End file.
